Obsession and Her Trappings
by Evangeline Henri
Summary: Harry Potter receives a fortune attesting to his most private desires. Soon, he and Draco Malfoy find their hands forced in an escalation of passions, which will soon call into question their loyalties and destinies. (h/d slash) WIP.
1. Harry 1-- Fortune

Obsession and Her Trappings 

By: Evangeline Henri

Rating: PG-13                   

Summary: Harry and Draco find their hands forced by thirteen words.  (HP/DM SLASH!)

Archives: ff.net, but all others are of course welcome to it.  Just ask.

Dedication:  For Atalanta de Lioncourt, my partner in both adventures glorious and revelations absurd.  Cheers to Aruba, babe.  Also to my BETA, Kitten, who worked diligently at this, refusing to be stopped by illness.  And to Yumie, my alpha and omega.  I love you all! 

*****

***

**Chapter One**

Harry 1— Fortune 

            One February night, when the wind was loud in the ramparts of Hogwarts castle, and the cold crept in, emboldened by the snow that had fallen the day before, Fred and George Weasley had trudged down the stairs from their dormitory and into the common room.  Both faces had been smudged in white dust and were pinched with exhaustion, but there was a triumphant gleam in their eyes and matching grins on both their faces.  

            Harry Potter, cradling his Transfigurations text in one of the huge armchairs that faced the fire, turned to see them more closely.  Fred had his arms stretched out, and was carrying something on a large tray.  What species of mayhem were they up to now?

            "Step right up, step right up for the newest addition to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' selection of fine pranks, gags, and entertaining victuals," George had cried.  Or at least Harry was reasonably sure it was George.

            "Get your insult fortune cookies here!" Fred had bellowed.  In his hands had been a tray, laden with small folded cookies that were golden-brown and looked quite appetizing.  "Weasley's Wise-Cracking Crackers— guaranteed to contain a personalized jab, jest, or derogatory comment every time!"     

            Harry smiled.  For the past few weeks, Fred and George had barricaded themselves in their "laboratory" (the seventh year boys' dormitories), perfecting their latest product.  Strange smells and sounds had been emanating from up there, and Lee Jordan had taken to sleeping on the couch in the common room, declaring it was more peaceful.  There had been rabid speculation as to what the two were brewing; Dean Thomas had even claimed they were creating their own army of mini Weasley's.

            A throng of Gryffindors began to form around the twins.  "First one's complimentary, folks!  Don't be shy; meet your pitiful pejorative fates with a stiff upper lip."

            Fred reached out and grabbed a member of the crowd while balancing the tray on one hand; it happened to be poor Neville Longbottom.  His face was clouded, obviously torn between the inviting scent wafting from the cookies, and the fact that it was the Weasley twins who had baked them.  

            Fred was less than sympathetic to Neville's indecision; he pushed him towards his twin, who said, "Ah, young Mr. Longbottom, how very brave.  Would you like a cookie, you sniveling flobberworm?"

            "Of course," he added, "that was just a rough conjecture.  I'm sure whatever surprise is baked in those delectable morsels my partner is carrying will be infinitely more creative."

            "'Creative?'  Nice word choice, 'bro," Fred quipped.  "Now, Mr. Longbottom, would you be so kind as to pick a cookie?"  He thrust the tray into Neville's face.

            Resigned to his fate, Neville closed his eyes, and selected a cookie.  The crowd was hushed, waiting for something— anything— to happen.  His lips moved in what looked suspiciously like a prayer, before breaking the thing apart in his hands and apprehensively shoving the pieces into his mouth.

            No one spoke as Neville chewed, his brows knitted in thought.  The room was silent; even Fred and George had paused their running commentary on their product to hear their first customer's response.  

            Finally, Neville's face blossomed into a smile.  "Not half bad!" he proclaimed.  "Maybe a bit on the crumbly side, but not half bad at all!"  The crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, seeing that he had neither grown nor lost appendages, nor turned an unusual hue.  Strange for a Weasley twin trick.

            "Did you all hear that?" Fred boomed, beaming like a proud father.  "He loves it!  His taste buds are in euphoria!"

            "Mr. Longbottom, would you now read your insult aloud?"  George's face betrayed no signs of a smirk.  Yet Harry knew there was one lurking just below his calm façade, waiting to burst out when Neville read his fortune.

            Neville nodded.  He unfolded the tiny piece of paper that had fallen into his hand, the light from the fire stressing the glittering letters  "_'Beware of the fall,'_" he read, and then looked up.  "Hey, you guys… that's not really all that insulting."

            Fred and George exchanged a look.  Fred whispered something into George's ear, who snatched the fortune out of Neville's hands.  

            "Let us see that!"  He handed it to his twin, who studied the scrap of parchment intently for a few minutes.

            Again, a whispered conference occurred.  If anything, the crowd was even more intrigued.  There were murmurings around the room, as everyone watched the twins' faces become darker and darker.

            After a few minutes of this tension, George again turned to Neville.  "Mr. Longbottom," he asked in a tone that had lost most of its mischievousness, "would you please walk up that flight of stairs?"  He pointed to the stairs leading up to their dormitories.

            Neville obediently trudged over, giving an aggrieved sigh.  Harry could tell that he was secretly loving every moment he spent in the spotlight, though.  It was a rare occurrence that all these people paid attention to anything he did, unless to poke fun at him.  He climbed the steps until he was out of sight.  He called out, "Now what?"

            "Now back down, Mr. Longbottom."

            Everyone listened with growing horror as Neville's regulated steps faltered, then changed into a clatter as Mr. Longbottom fell, end over end, to land dazedly amid a group of stunned onlookers.

            The twins nodded grimly at one another, mouthing Neville's fortune.  "_'Beware of the fall.'"_

            Fred scowled.  "They weren't supposed to do that!  What do you think went wrong?"

            George shrugged.  "Dunno, but I think it has something to do with the _secret ingredient_."

            "You know what this means, don't you?"

            With that, Fred and George raced up the stairs that led back to their dormitory, barely avoiding Neville, who still lay there, stunned.  "Due to field tests that revealed unforeseen problems, we will be need to perform another round of testing before Weasley's Wise-Cracking Crackers become available on the market," one of them shouted over his shoulder.

            The crowd, seeing this was all the excitement for tonight, soon began to disperse.  Harry stood up from the overstuffed chair in which he had watched all the events that transpired.  Seeing that no one had yet come to Neville's aid, Harry walked over, and held out his hand.

            "Never a dull moment in the Gryffindor common room," he quipped.

            Neville nodded balefully.

*****

((E.H.- although this chapter is slash-free, expect some in upcoming ones.))

*****


	2. Harry 2-- Ruby-Red Secrets

Obsession and Her Trappings

(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)

*****

Chapter Two 

Harry 2— Ruby-Red Secrets

            At breakfast the next morning, word came out that a "pomegranate ripened under the summer solstice" had been mysteriously spirited from Professor Trelawney's tower.  Although the theft was officially being blamed on Peeves, Harry had a feeling that the item's purity, or lack thereof, had something to do with the faulty fortune cookies.  At least, his theory helped explain the puzzling reaction the Weasley twins had had to seeing said professor.

             "Bloody owl-faced crone," Fred had muttered when she had swept past the Gryffindor table.  George had agreed, coupling a nod of his head with a string of utterances that had turned Ron's ears pink.

            In their disgust, they had given away the defective batch of cookies in the common room, before returning back to their "laboratory."  Fred had explained to everyone who had returned to see the sequel to last night's events that, for some reason, the cookies were actually giving accurate predictions.  No words could even hope to convey their dismay that this was the case.  

            At first, people had been wary to touch the things; no one was totally convinced that this wasn't all part of another devious Weasley twins prank.  Nevertheless, after a few brave souls took tepid bites and pronounced the cookies excellent (if a bit on the crumbly side), they vanished quickly.

            Harry himself had grabbed a fistful, and retreated back to his room to eat while studying for a particularly nasty Transfigurations test.  He had been working in the common room, but it had become much too rowdy to get any work done in there.  As he left, he heard Seamus yell something about fireworks, followed by a small explosion, and much laughter.  Trust the twins to inspire a party even when they failed at something.

            Smiling, Harry sat down cross-legged on his bed.  He heaved open his massive textbook, the mattress bouncing slightly from the weight of it.  Settling himself down for a long afternoon, he absently grabbed a cookie, and began to read.

            However, after the first few, Harry had lost both the will to eat and to study.  Systematically, he cupped each folded cookie in his hand, and squeezed until dust seeped out from his clenched fist.  His red and crimson coverlet was coated in a fine layer of crumbs, but he couldn't have cared less about the mess he was making.  When he opened his palm, it was red with imprints of the cookie's corners.  And all he was left with was his fortune.

            He formed a small pile of the papers on his knee.  Some were written in red, some in green, but all contained that same blasted sentence.  "_Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it."  _Again and again, as if this were all he'd ever need to know, as if this was his only fortune in life.

            He stared at the pile, not knowing what to do with them all.  At first, he thought he could burn them, tossing the entire batch into the fire.  But knowing the Weasleys, he doubted that one of their gags— even a faulty one— could be discarded so easily.  Most likely, the flames would only make them multiply in number, so that in the ashes he'd find dozens upon dozens, mocking him. 

            Throwing them all out the window was just as futile, for they were probably infused with a Boomerang Charm.  And even if they didn't come back, did he really want to litter the grounds with his fortune?  Someone (probably Snape) would find out who was behind it, and punish him for it.  So that was out, too.

            Maybe, if he asked them when they were in the right mood, the twins themselves would tell him how to dispose of the things.  But they were already hard at work at fixing their mistakes; he doubted that interrupting them would achieve anything.  And he would have to explain why he cared so much, why those words (silly, simple words really) affected him the way they did.  That would never do.

            He looked down at the pile, and a chill raced through him.  _"Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it."  _What sort of cryptic garbage was that?  He wanted to laugh the cookies off, to show Ron and Dean when they came back from the Library.  He wanted to make up some snappy comment that would rid himself of all questions about what they meant.

            He wanted to, but he couldn't.

            All he could think about was the way Draco Malfoy's eyes glinted whenever he said something nasty about Harry and his friends, the way a spark of gold would flash amid that sea of icy blue.  And the way that, when Ron had said something about Draco not having any real friends in the first place, there was a split second when he almost looked hurt.  The way sometimes, when Draco slipped while cutting an ingredient in Potions class and three droplets of blood fell from his finger, Harry had the urge to bring said finger to his lips, and to lick away the crimson stains.  And the way that would feel, velvet tongue over soft, pampered skin.  Delicious.  

            _ "Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it."_  How could they have possibly known?  Harry felt as though some stranger had come during the night and sifted through the darkest corners of his mind, stealing those precious ruby-red secrets that he half-wished didn't even exist.  How could such a stupid, stupid _joke_ have violated him so completely?  For that was the best word to describe it— violated.

            No one could know; Harry was absolutely sure of that.  No one must ever find out that he, the paradigm of truth and bravery and all things Gryffindor, was— no matter how deep in the back of his mind— lusting after the poster child of the inbred, purebred, Death Eater youth group.  Some things were better kept to oneself; some tainted desires best left for cold, lonely nights when everyone else was asleep.  Yes, that was where this belonged— safely tucked away, unknown to all but Harry.  That was the only way he thought he could face such a desire.  Alone.

            Maybe, though, it would be safe to tell Hermione.  Someday, when they were studying quietly in the library, maybe— just maybe— Harry could approach the topic.  She'd probably be the best confidant; her reason could pierce through even the most clouded situations.  She'd listen patiently, and give him her best "I-don't-know-why-I-bother-with-you-people" sigh.  Then, she'd proceed into a long lecture on "the forbidden fruit," which would most likely be loaded with psychobabble and Freudian theories.  It wouldn't help his situation, but it was the best option he had.

            After all, who else could Harry tell?  The only other person with whom he'd be comfortable discussing his love life would be Ron, and he could just see what would happen if he confessed this demon.  

            First, there would be the silence, during which Ron's face would become more and more horrified and Harry would wish more and more that he could apparate to somewhere far, far away.  Then, Ron would begin to yell, howling expletives not even the twins would be bold enough to use, all directed at Draco.  

            When he had calmed down a bit, perhaps Ron might begrudgingly temper his hostility towards Draco for Harry's sake.  But that would come at a price, of course; after admitting that he had a crush on _Malfoy_, things would never be the same between the two of them.  And if there was one thing Harry did not want to do, it was lose his best friend.  So Ron was definitely out of the question.

            Speaking of Ron— Harry realized that it was late.  Pretty soon, he and Dean would be back.  He couldn't let them see the mess he had made, couldn't stand to find answers to the interrogation that would undoubtedly follow.  He couldn't even answer his own questions— how could he even address theirs?

            Harry grabbed his wand from his nightstand, and waved it at his bed.  "_Balayera Crumbs_," he muttered, and the crumbs flew into the dustbin.  Harry was thankful that he had even remembered such a simple spell.  When he allowed himself to worry overmuch about The Draco Dilemma, it usually eradicated all other thoughts, leaving him in a melancholy stupor.  Tonight, it was only the fear of being caught that allowed him clarity of thought.

            There was still the matter of the fortunes themselves, though.  Lacking any way of permanently disposing of them, he decided his best bet was to hide them for the time being.  He opened the trunk at the foot of his bed, and began to pull out everything that he had stored in it.  Various items came out, all that were sure to 'come in handy sooner or later.'  Socks, spare robes, letters, and old editions of _The Daily Prophet_ flew across the room.

            His fingers touched the bottom, nails scratching against the wood.  Harry collected the papers, scooping the slips into his hands.  He dropped them in with no flourish, wishing he could so easily dispose of the problem itself, and not just one of its many symptoms.  They fell like snowflakes, lying to rest with a quiet grace.  Harry saw them not as that, though, but rather as a poison, some glittering potion that was even still calling his name as the light made it glint and twinkle.

            He would not be swayed by them; he began to repack.  No time for folding anything, but it didn't matter.  There was no order, but never mind that either.  Harry just kept reaching out his hand, finding a shirt or a book to add.  He didn't even know if it was all his.  All that he really cared about was getting those damn things out of sight, creating a buffer between the poignancy of the words and himself.  Every time he was ready to stop, he thought he caught a glimpse of one gilt corner peeking out from under the mounds and mounds he had piled.

            Finally convinced that they were safely buried, Harry took a deep, calming breath.  After several attempts and one hastily uttered Shrinking Spell, he managed to close his trunk.  He stood up, and was about to go back to his long-ignored Transfigurations text, when something drew him to the window.

            He looked down at the courtyard, illuminated by the gibbous moon in the sky.  A lone figure was crossing, feet making tracks in the snow.  The person's hood had been up, but halfway across, it fell down to reveal a head of silvery-blond hair.  Even from all the way up in his room, Harry knew the only person who it could be.

            _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._

            "Easier said than done," he muttered.

*****  

(end part two)


	3. Draco 1-- Green Eyes

Obsession and Her Trappings

(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)

*****

Chapter Three//  Draco 1— Green Eyes 

            It was a Thursday, Potions had just ended, and Draco Malfoy's world was just as it should be.  A bit of chaos when the inept Gryffindor imbeciles managed to destroy four of their cauldrons, a show of superiority when Draco had finished the potion in fifteen minutes (the fastest time for a fifth-year in recent history), even a little humor when Neville spontaneously morphed into a small bald dog after spilling the wrong fluid on himself— perfect.  And although Professor Snape had been quick to reverse the change— Draco had thought it a significant improvement— today had been wonderful.

            Walking out the door, Draco smirked when he heard that Messrs. Thomas, Finnegan, Weasley, and Potter were to spend the next hour cleaning everything up.  That would knock those oh-so-valiant Gryffindor snobs down a notch.  He couldn't have asked for a better ending.

            Fifty-nine minutes later, though, Draco was back in front of the entrance to the Potions dungeon, skulking in the shadows and feeling decidedly less smug.  He had spent the time looking for something to do, and, much as Draco was loathe to admit it, the absence of the Eminent Boy Who Lived and his trusty sidekick had put a severe damper on his fun.

            After all, where was the enjoyment in being superior and nasty if there was no one around to bother with it?  Why should he spend the effort to be cruel to unimportant people?  He would rather wait, thank you, until his usual prey arrived on the scene.  Draco Malfoy no longer had either the time or the inclination to be indiscriminately evil.

            At six precisely, the weary detainees trudged out of the room.  Draco watched them pass, waiting for his pair to appear.  They were sure to be the last ones Snape released.  There was Ron now, rubbing his grubby palms on his second- (or third, or fourth-) hand robes.  

            But where was the Great Harry Potter?  What could be separating him from his closest friend?  Perhaps he had been so foolish as to be insolent to Snape.  If that was the case, then there was little point in Draco waiting for him.  Harry wouldn't be done with his penance until midnight.  Perhaps it was in Draco's best interest to follow Ron.

            However tempting a confrontation with the tempestuous redhead was, Draco let him pass by.  There really was no comparison, after all.  Antagonizing Harry Potter was more that just sport; it was electrifying.  The only feeling he had ever been able to liken it to was standing atop the hills surrounding Malfoy Manor, and screaming at the storm clouds as they rolled in, heavy and swollen with rain.  

            So he waited, crouched and ready.  It didn't matter how long, or whether he had to spend the entire night here.  A tiger on the prowl would wait days for his prey to come.  This wasn't just something to occupy his time anymore.  No, Obsession had reared her screaming head, and found a consort in Draco Malfoy.  He would wait for as long as he had to.

            At last, the door opened, and Draco peered into the great gaping maw that was the Potions classroom.  A figure appeared, materializing from the darkness inside.  Harry.  His head was down, black hair obstructing the scar.  His feet skidded across the stone floor; they were barely raised off the ground.  His robes were dusty, his hands dirty.  His figure was one great, exhausted curve.  Quite a sight.

            Draco stepped out of the darkness and into the center of the corridor.  "Potter."  Ooh, he liked the way the stone played with his voice.

            Green eyes met his.  "What do you want, Malfoy?"  There was anger behind those words, trailing them warily.  Draco could smell it, and he was determined to bring it out, to dig and dig at him until those eyes were glinting with fury.  

            "Poor Potter's had to stay late, cleaning up spills?"  He took a step closer.  "How degrading.  Oh, I bet you were seething, Potter.  On your knees like that?  I bet it must have been beastly for you."

            Draco leaned forward, and touched Harry's sleeve with a finger.  Before he could be batted away, though, Draco had pulled back.  "Did we soil our pretty robes?"  He tutted.  "Can't have that now."  Actually, these robes were already something of a mess; worn thin in places, mended in others.  Obviously his spare set.

            Yes— there it was!  Anger in those eyes.  Marvelous.  "Sod off!"  And now it had spilled over into his voice, corrupting it.  He almost sounded like Draco.

            This was much better than Ron. 

            "Unless," Draco continued, "Oh yes— unless you enjoyed it.  Tell me, Potter.  Did it feel good?  Did you like being on your hands and knees?  Did having to look up like some sort of slave—" he allowed his gaze to flicker over Harry's midsection— "excite you?  I bet it did.  I bet you were loving every single second of it, you…."

            Draco found himself flat on his back.  "Fucking sod off!"  This had gone too far.  Potter was really enraged; otherwise, he wouldn't have gotten violent.  It simply wasn't his style.  Obviously, Harry was in no mood for their usual oral battles.  Draco could feel the heat in his face rising as he kicked Potter's feet out from under him, and he tumbled down with a thud.  Scratching, slashing, Harry fought back, savaging arm, face— anything.  Draco yelped, feeling nails scrape against his cheek.  

            Draco tried to stand, but Harry grabbed the hem of his robe, and he collapsed back down on top of him.  The boy was all bones, and his angular frame stabbed into Draco.  "You goddamned wanker!  Let me the fuck go!"  

            They wrestled for control, rolling over and over on the cold floor.  Draco's head spun; Harry's eyes were above him, then below him, then above him again.  Heaven and hell, heaven and hell.  Draco's limbs banged as they struggled, his elbow smashing against the stones.  He sucked in a deep breath, biting his lip.

            This would have to end, and there was only one way that Draco could think of to do it.  He cocked back his fist, and punched Potter square in the face like he had seen Crabbe and Goyle do to first ears thousands of times.  His hand gave a scream of pain, but he didn't care.  There was something satisfying about the action, something that felt so good that made Draco wonder why he had never done this before.  In any case, he wanted to do it again and again, to pound Harry until that ivory skin split beneath his fingers, until Harry's face looked like a squashed plum, and those beautiful green eyes were the only things recognizable.  He wanted Harry to scream, to wail as his glasses became tinted red with blood.

            Draco thought he might like to try it again, to see if Harry's skin against his fist would feel the same, if maybe he'd get a noise out of the boy.  But, this time, Harry was too fast.  Before he could finish winding up his fist, he had elbowed him in the stomach.  Draco gasped, coughing.

            Although they fought savagely for dominance, neither could gain the upper hand.  Draco found himself at an impasse; all he could do was glare daggers at Harry.  And though he tried to channel his rage to his eyes, Draco found that he couldn't hold a candle to the look Harry was giving him.  Pure hatred.  The green was blinding.  Fuck him again!

            A noise at the end of the corridor.  A door opening?  They released their hold on one another and sprang to their feet.  Neither was enough of a stranger to punishment to welcome it.  Draco's lower lip was throbbing, probably swollen.  When he put a hand up to his face, he felt something sticky.  Blood.  Harry's left eye was turning a lovely shade of purple, and he saw him wince as he tried to straighten his arm.  

            "I bet that was Snape."  Draco spat the words.  "Wait 'till he sees what you've done to me."

            Harry, with a look that could have come from a basilisk, gathered his books from where they had fallen.  "You are a waste of time," he said, his face expressionless.  "And someday, you're going to realize just how pathetic you really are.  And then I'll be sorry for you, Draco Malfoy."  He turned on his heel, and walked away, leaving Draco alone. 

*****

(end part three)

((E.H.- Much thanks to Moi, who pointed out that horrible error in my summary.  It was a bit of a nitpicking point, but one that would have galled me as a reader.  All fixed!))


	4. Draco 2— Masochistic, Really

Obsession and Her Trappings

(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)

*****

Chapter Three 

Draco 2— Masochistic, Really

            Draco watched Harry go, the soles of Harry's shoes slapping the stone floor.  He walked at a jaunty gait, as if daring Draco to run after him.  But Draco was sick of Harry Potter, sick of everything about him.  Something about that final blow had hurt, something had hit where all the physical blows had merely grazed past.  He no longer cared that he hadn't had the parting shot.  It didn't matter; all he wanted was to be away from him.  He wouldn't have followed for anything in the world.

            A sparkle caught Draco's weary eye.  He looked to where Harry had been standing a few seconds ago.  A scrap of parchment on the ground, the letters glinting in the light.  Careless, callous Potter, leaving his things about.  He should have known better than to drop something in a Slytherin corridor.  For Slytherins, there were few things to which 'finder's keepers' didn't apply.

            He walked over to where it lay.  Hopefully, the paper was something of some importance.  A password to the Gryffindor tower, perhaps, or an important spell that Harry was trying to memorize.  Something of that sort, to cause him annoyance or frustration.  Something that would give him a pang of regret for assaulting a Malfoy.

He squinted, trying to see what had been written.  

"_Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it."  _

_            Harry.  Green eyes.  Smiling, laughing, shouting.  Harry…  _

            Draco was against the wall, his back pressed against the cool stones.  His body had obviously reacted faster than his mind, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in.  His heart was pounding, and his breaths were coming in shallow pants.  The parchment lay on the floor, dropped before he was actively aware of what he had read.  From his toes, up his spine, and cresting in his mind, a terrible panicking pain hit him; he flinched at its crescendo in his brain.  Fear and confusion, two twin succubae, accompanied this wave up and down his body, slithering up and down and nipping at his soul to feed their terrible hungers.  

            Draco heard the feeble voice of reason pipe up in his mind.  Was he sure that was what he had read?  Perhaps it had just been a trick of the light that his senses had used to manipulate into the words.  They might very well be nothing at all; this panic could be of Draco's own making.

            Willing his heart to stop that infernal thundering in his ears, Draco took cautious steps towards the paper.  With each one, he was able to calm himself a little more.  This was not proper Malfoy behavior; Malfoys never scare so easily; be a proper Malfoy, Draco; don't let your imagination run away with you, you silly boy; don't be such a disgrace; fight you fears; don't have fears at all….

            The mantras, drawn from thousands of childhood chastisements, served their purpose well.  Draco bent down to pick up the paper with only a hint of his former fear.  He stood, and pulled out his wand.  "_Lumos_," he whispered, hoping that the flare of magic would not be enough to draw any attention.  

            The corridor bathed in warm light, Draco slowly uncurled his fingers.  The paper, though more wrinkled than it had been the last time he looked, was otherwise as it had been.  "_Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it."_

            So it was as he had thought.  He took a deep breath, having not really ever expected anything different.  Draco knew those words, knew them with the grim recognition of a man identifying the person who killed his lover.  Those words and he were old adversaries.  

Yet, how perfectly uncanny that Harry should know them, too.  No, not even just to know them— to be familiar with them enough to carry them around on a scrap of parchment.  Draco indulged in a few fantastic scenarios that came to mind.  They were Harry's hair shirt, the reminder of his inner sin that he carried as penance.  They were a prank; they meant nothing to him.  Finally, most ominously: Harry knew.

            _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  The first time Draco had noticed these words was at the beginning of third year.  Returning after holidays, Draco had found them scrawled on the wall of the second-floor boys' bathroom.  They had just appeared, some strange testament, some graffiti prophesy.

Upon careful inspection, Draco had learned that whoever had been brazen enough to defile the wall had also been a fairly clever wizard.  The words were infused with a charm— one that was well beyond Draco's abilities— that made them irremovable.  Draco had later heard that they were a source of constant anguish for Filch, too inept to do anything about them.  Masterful work.

            They had captivated Draco from the first.  There was something about the urgency of their command, as if they compelled a person to obey.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  Whoever had written them was someone that Draco could admire.  That person knew his mind, knew what to do.  He was powerful and forceful, and brave.  Unlike Draco himself.

            Darkness.  Like a candle snuffed by a giant hand, the corridor was suddenly black.  The spell must have worn off, Draco thought.  It hadn't been strongly cast, after all— Draco's mind had been elsewhere.

            Taking this as a hint, Draco decided it would be best to go back to his room.  He set off, unhindered by the gloom.  He knew this wing of the castle almost as well as he knew Malfoy Manor; he liked to prowl it as if it were his own territory.  Third passage on the right; up five flights of stairs and down one; bear left at the fork in the corridor….  He had memorized his way by the end of his first month.

            His mind freed by the monotony of the journey, he heard the words in his head.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  When he had first read them, the message had been just enough to tip his preoccupation with Harry Potter into total obsession.  For just as constantly as the surfaced in his conscious, so to did Harry.  The two became intertwined fro Draco, and soon, he became fixated by the Boy Who Lived.  Harry became the driving force in his life, supplanted everything else to take total power of his very being.  That face was always in the back of Draco's mind, that sentence accompanying it.  

Out of this emotional mêlée of faces and phrases, a new order had been born.  His soul realigned, Draco now had a purpose unlike anything before.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  Harry became the reason he did anything at all; even the most trivial actions were taken under the shadow of those words.  Harry never knew it, but it was all just one question; the sniping and the scathing remarks were just Draco asking for what he wanted.

            In general, what he wanted was Harry.  More specific examples of what he wanted— how and when, where and for how long— could be found in his journals, tucked safely underneath his bed.  Each night, after everyone had gone to sleep, Draco pulled one out, and wrote something new.  Tonight, it would probably be his newfound affinity for violence.  Taken as a whole, they constituted his captain's log, the record of his navigation through the murky waters of forbidden desire.  And in the back of every one, like a key to the stars of Draco's universe, were those words. 

            Draco rounded the final turn.  He was almost there, almost at his dormitory.  Almost home, or some variation thereof.  His breath hitched as he thought of sanctuary.  The stone walls, cool and calm, even when the world should be collapsing.  His bed, pressed into the corner— his corner.

            And then he was pushing open the door, and Draco was inside.  The room was cold and empty; he liked it that way.  No one to bother him, no questions to answer.  The chill in the air woke him, kept him alert and sharpened his mind.

            "_Lumos_," and the torches blazed to life.  Draco watched them flicker, creating strange shapes on the walls.  Monsters and unicorns and demons and a boy with a lightning bolt scar….

            _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  Damn it!  Why wouldn't Harry Potter go away?  Anyone but Harry, for anyone but Draco.  Damn, damn, damn!

            Draco stepped over to the torch closest to his bed.  How easy it would be to feed the parchment to it, to offer the scrap as a sacrifice to the gods of light and unwanted love.  He held his hand to the flame, but pulled back when it scorched his skin.  'Like his eyes, scorching my mind.'  Maybe there would be a small shower of sparks as it burned, one last glittering cry as Harry's message disappeared forever.  It'd be gone, and Draco would pretend that it had never happened.

            He couldn't, though.  He knew that.  He wouldn't be able to destroy it, no matter how it troubled him.  Masochistic, really, but then, who wasn't nowadays?  Rainforests going up in smoke; people poisoning the air, the oceans, and themselves; elephants being slaughtered on the Serengeti; infant babies being drowned in China.  And a Malfoy, sitting alone and pining for Gryffindor's prodigal son.  What a fucked up world.

            He knew what he would do with the parchment.  Carefully, Draco tapped the bed knob of his huge bed with his wand.  "_Ouvrious_," he whispered, his tongue dry and caked in his mouth.

            With the sigh of old oak, a drawer from under the bed creaked open.  Made of the same wood as the bed, it had been marvelously hidden by whoever had built the frame.  No one who didn't know about its existence would ever see the faintest of lines in the bed frame that denoted its existence.  It had taken Draco the better part of three years to find it, and that had been a completely serendipitous discovery.

Inside was a packrat's treasure trove, a cornucopia of odds and ends.  Baubles and such, the types of things we keep, the things that have gradually come to contain a piece of us.  Draco had put them all there, and each object had its significance.  His most prized possessions.  They were the only things he had ever cared about.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._

First, he fingered an old candy wrapper, which had once housed a Chocolate Frog.  This year on the train, Harry had bought it.  Due to a minor altercation between Draco and Ron, though, an errant blow had smashed the candy.  Retreating to lick his wounds and to change his hair back to its normal color (damn that Hermione), Draco had seen Ron try to pay for the crushed chocolate.  Harry refused— of course the charitable git would— and to reassure Ron, he had licked the crystallized sugar off the package.  Draco could still see the way his tongue had darted out to capture the dark sweetness, his eyes closed to savor the taste.

Later, the Summoning Charm that Draco had used to procure the object had been his first act of magic that term.  He had been quite proud; the wrapper had flown into his open palm in less than a minute.  He would have liked to send a note of gratitude to Professor Flitwick, but had thought it a tad improper.

Underneath the wrapper lay a photograph.  There was a story behind that, as well.  Draco had always wanted a photograph of Harry, and one day, he resolved to get one.  It had been no easy task to sneak into Colin Creevey's darkroom— the miserable twit had sought to hide the entrance to it.  But little had ever been able to be kept from Draco Malfoy when it caught his fancy, and after three hours, he slid into the womblike chamber.  

Draco had balked, however, at taking a headshot.  Most of them were poorly executed, and more importantly Draco hadn't known how he would ever be able to work if he could see those eyes whenever he chose.  They would be forever calling him, two twin beacons that beckoned Draco to lose himself in their light.

Instead, he grabbed a photo that was below even Creevey's rudimentary skills— one of Harry's hands.  Something about the shot had fascinated Draco, though.  Those hands, so capable with a broom, so agile when they clasped the little Snitch.  So graceful whenever Harry talked; they floated about as he spoke.  So forceful, balled into fists.  They mesmerized him; the photo was blurry now from the fingerprints.

The last thing Draco touched— with careful fingers, so as not to crumble it— was a dried yellow rose.  In fourth year, Harry had spent quite some time in the Infirmary, and Draco had been to visit him every night.  No one ever knew, and Draco preferred it that way.  He would watch Harry sleep for hours, watch the way his chest rose and fell, the way his face would change at every dream.  He and Harry could have their battles every now and again, but he was the only one that should be allowed to hurt him.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

With a jealous eye, Draco had seen the pile of gifts and flowers grow steadily, as more and more students heaped adoration upon their hero.  Finally, Draco had mustered the courage to make his own addition to the collection— that rose.  He had laid it carefully on Harry's pillow, brushing the sleeping boy's hair from his eyes.  Then, Draco snuck away, half-hoping no one would ever find it.

The next night, he had returned to find the flower in its very own vase.  He would always remember the way it stood, all alone on the windowsill, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in.

When Harry left the Infirmary, Draco had taken back the rose.  Sometimes, he liked to imagine that Harry himself had discovered it, and had found a vase for the flower.  Sometimes, he liked to imagine that, while transporting it, a thorn had pricked Harry's finger.  Not so much as to cause too much pain, but enough to let a few drops of blood fall.  Draco liked to imagine himself appearing, and sucking at the cut.  He liked to imagine tonguing Harry's skin, liked to imagine Harry moaning at the feel of it.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._

Sometimes, he liked to imagine destroying the silly thing, crushing it under his heel.

It was into this collection, this shrine of his most deranged passion, that Draco decided to add the slip of paper.  His mouth forming the words, he dropped it into the drawer.  He touched the bed knob again, and the drawer shut.  Only now, the sound that it made was strangely similar to a cry.  Heart pounding, Draco backed away from the bed.  An image of Harry came— unbidden, as always— to accompany that sound.  On his knees, just as Draco had jeered earlier.  Only now, he wasn't washing and cleaning; he was down there for Draco….

"Damnit, Malfoy!"  He shook his head, willing the image to disappear.  "Keep your fantasies in check."  Now was no time to get carried away, not when there were important matters at hand.  He needed all of his blood to stay in his brain, thank you very much.

After a few deep breaths, Draco felt much more in control of his faculties.  That was better.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it.  _Maybe it was just a coincidence.  Maybe Harry, seeing the words scrawled on the wall of the third-floor bathroom, had written them down out of sheer curiosity.  Maybe they held no meaning at all to him.  

They most certainly didn't engender the same feelings in Harry as they did in Draco.  That was one thing he knew for sure.  Harry, too good to curse someone from behind, even if that someone (Draco) really deserved it.  Harry, too good to pick a fight just to see someone's eyes.  Harry, too good and too beautiful for Draco not to love him.  Harry, too fucking good to ever, ever look at Draco like that. _ Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

As this topic had a tendency to do, Draco suddenly felt sapped of all his energy.  All these maybes had exhausted him.  Worrying only made his head hurt, and he felt the injuries he had suffered earlier all the more.  His eyelids were heavy, his limbs leaden.  He wanted to sleep, wanted the big warm blanket of oblivion to surround him.  He wanted to not think anymore tonight.

He didn't even have the energy to change into his night robes; he could barely open his bed curtains to slip inside.  Pulling up the covers to ward off the cold, Draco closed his eyes.

When sleep mercifully came to Draco Malfoy, there was only one graceful figure that slipped in and out of his dreams like an ebony-haired phantasm.  When Draco lowered his hands down his body to touch himself there, there was only one face that he saw.  And there was only one name that he screamed into his pillow as he came in his sleep.

_Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

*****

(end part one)

Note: There will be more to this, promise.  I have Chapter Five diagrammed out; now I just have to get my muses to take a look at my thoughts and rip them to shreds.  Hopefully, this extremely bloody process will occur sooner rather than later, and I can add to the piece in the near future.


	5. Harry 3-- A Night for Revelations

Obsession and Her Trappings

(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)

*****

Chapter Five 

Harry 3— A Night for Revelations

            Harry Potter squinted, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  "That's supposed to look like a bear?"

            Hermione Granger looked up from her work.  "Of course it is."  She snatched the paper from him with impatient fingers.  "See?"  She pointed, careful not to touch the immaculate drawings.  "That's its nose, pointing at the herdsman, and those are its paws along the bottom."

            "I guess I just don't see these sorts of things," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

            With a long look that was all too scrutinizing for his liking, she put the star chart away.  "Well, I don't see how you managed to draw one that's any better.  I consulted loads of sources on the best way to connect all the points, and I checked my sketches three times last week to make sure that they were accurate."

            "When is this due again?"

            She pursed her lips, contracting them into a hard line.  "Tomorrow."

            Harry's breath caught in his throat.  He sputtered, choking on air.  "You're kidding, right?"

            "Harry, you haven't drawn this star chart yet?"

            A miserable nod.

            "But you _knew_ it was due tomorrow; I specifically remember you asking Professor Sinistra it if we were to do it in ink the day that she assigned.  It was the day before we had that huge Transfigurations test, when Fred and George gave out all those cookies….  You can't tell me that you forgot about it!"

            But, naturally, he had forgotten; how could he have been expected not to?  He remembered that day, of course— that was when he had received his prophecy.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  As if any horrendous, long-term Astrology assignment had been more than a passing cloud in the tempest that was blowing through his mind.  A chill blew through him, rattling his teeth.  This was just great, wasn't it?

            Harry had been teasing Hermione earlier today that she was going to become a teacher, and he saw how accurate he had been.  Her eyes were February-frosty, and her tone was that professorial blend of anger and disappointment.  "This is the second assignment this week that you've forgotten about.  Honestly, I don't where your mind has been lately."

            Harry looked down at his hands; he hadn't realized that he had balled them into fists.  If she only knew what had monopolized his thoughts lately, he thought ruefully.  Ever since that awful fortune cookie, Draco Malfoy had taken up permanent residence in the back of his mind, always ready to swoop down and occupy his thoughts at the slightest provocation.  And after that night in the Potions corridor, it had only gotten worse.  In ways that he most certainly wasn't aware of, Draco was making Harry's life miserable.

            Perhaps seeing his distress, Hermione softened.  She rested a hand on his shoulder, and her eyes lost their coldness.  "I'm sorry for getting on you like that.  I can just tell that something's been bothering you lately, and seeing you like this has been driving me crazy."  She smiled.  "If there's something you ever want to talk about, you know I'll listen."  The hand squeezed his shoulder.  "Right?"

            "Right," he said, hoping that he sounded convincing enough.  "And I might just take you up on that offer soon."  He didn't know about that, but she really did seem concerned.  Maybe he needed to talk with someone, and Hermione had always been the one person that he'd trust this with.  "But right now, I think I have a star chart to draw." 

            He glanced at her paper.  "You wouldn't be willing to perhaps contribute all that effort to a worthy cause, would you?"

            She raised an eyebrow. 

            "Thought not," he said.  "Could you at least give me a general idea of where in the castle I should go to see all these blasted stars, then?"

             "Normally, I'd be opposed to giving you any sort of unfair aid; it took me four days to find the right spot."  She smiled.  "But, seeing as we're not allowed to use the Astronomy Tower and you're in a rather desperate position, I'll tell you where I went."  

            "Great!"  Harry stood.  "Just let me go get my things, and then you can give me directions." 

            A branch knocked against one of the common room windows, and a gust of wind blew through the fireplace, almost putting the flames out.  Hermione pulled her cardigan closer around her neck.  "I'd grab your coat, too, if I were you," she said, a hint of humor in her voice.  "It's going to be bloody freezing out there."

*****

            It _was_ bloody cold, Harry groused as he trudged through the snow.  His ears were stinging and the wind was swirling around him, stirring up the snow so that it blew into his face.  He wiped his eyes and lowered his head, instead focusing on his feet.  They crunched the snow, sinking in several inches with each step.  Turning around, he could see a trail of ungainly holes that marked his passing.  He felt like tiptoeing then, or floating, so that the ground remained pristine.  

            For some reason, Harry thought of a TV program he had been shown in Muggle primary school, about the first man to travel to the North Pole.  Imagine— miles and miles of virgin land, untouched by man.  Plains of pure white, unspoiled by the failures and folly and fame of humanity, pure visions of snow and sky.  A land of eternal ice.  How beautiful, how wonderful in it own horribly lonely way.  

            The path that he treaded was rambling and faint, weaving through mottled brush and trees.  It was only discernable by the gold ribbons someone had tied on the tree trunks to mark the way.  He reached over and tried to touch one, but it slipped from his grasp.  (Of course a path around a magical school would have magical markers.)  Moonlight streamed through the canopy, and he could see the sky past the spindly reaches of the bare trees.

            He was on his way to a clearing outside of the other end of the castle.  In the center of it, there was an old bench, carved by one of the school's founders and covered with pictures of the constellations.  Hermione had read about the place in _Hogwarts, a History_; it was the best place for stargazing besides the Tower.  Something about the orientation of the bench with the North Star— he hadn't really been listening to that part.

            Harry was reasonably sure that Hogwarts was to his left; Hermione had said that the path weaved through the beech grove that surrounded its oldest sections.  The trees grew thick and tall on either side of him, but they lacked the sinister shadows of those in the Forbidden Forest.  He was skirting the outer edges of it, keeping far from its mysterious depths.  

            Harry looked up at those dratted stars.  They were so distant, existing billions of kilometers from earth.  Their fires burned, but only for themselves— they could never share that warmth with anyone.  He glanced about him, making sure that no one was nearby.  With a sigh, Harry closed his eyes and blew a kiss to those stars.  He knew what it was like to love in vain, after all.

            Something howled from deep in the Forest, and his eyes snapped open.  Now was no time for romantic nonsense, he reminded himself.  He was still too close to the Forbidden Forest for comfort; he wouldn't have come out here if he could have avoided it.  There were plenty of hungry beasts and other nighttime nasties that trawled its outer edges, creatures he was sure a fifth year Defense Against the Dark Arts student was not competent enough to handle.  Even one with experience in fighting the powers of evil.

            He wished he had the Marauder's Map with him; the thing was an invaluable guide at times like these.  Somehow, his father and his friends had managed to cover every inch of this school in their nocturnal journeys.  They probably knew even more about it than Hermione's books did.  He had lent it to Seamus last night, who had needed to find a quiet place for one of his 'study sessions' with a bubbly Ravenclaw.  Now, trekking through the aftereffects of a blizzard with a nose that was becoming numb, Harry regretted being so magnanimous.  

  
            Even the Invisibility Cloak would have been a blessing— but no, he had forgotten all about it in his rush.  He shivered, and briefly considered going back to get it.  There wasn't time, though; he had to finish this tonight.  Much as he missed its warmth, he didn't dare risk going back for it.  If he ran out of time, and missed yet another assignment….  The thought was too distasteful to complete.

            Malfoy.  If it weren't for that prig he wouldn't be out here.  Stupid cookies, too; they were what had really started him on the road to tonight.  Before the Weasleys' shoddy invention, he had been able to keep his Draco fascination to a bearable level.  True, the sight of that slender figure did always jolt him and send his nerves whirring, but he had been able to manage his secret and keep it from interfering in his life.  

            After that fortune, though, the bloody floodgates had opened.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  The nighttime dreams got worse (or better, he supposed; it was all a matter of perspective), the daydreams became nearly incapacitating, and his schoolwork began to slide as Arithmancy derivations were slowly replaced in his notebooks by looping D's and H's.  That fight after Potions only exacerbated the tension.  Damn Malfoy to hell!

            Much as he would love to ignore it, though, the thought of Draco did warm him.  Strange, because he always looked so cold; Harry had imagined that the touch of Draco's hands would freeze him.  And yet, that night in the corridor, his body had been aflame.  It was funny that, in all these years at Hogwarts, this was the closest Harry had ever gotten to him— their bodies pressed on the floor, both attempting to beat the shit out of one another.  Close enough to kiss him, perhaps, but definitely close enough to mar that alabaster skin.  Maybe they had been close enough to do both.

            There had been a raw intimacy that night, a strange slithering something that had affected him.  Their bodies, seeped in adrenalin, had pounded against one another in a fashion that was primal, pure, and wonderful.  It had transcended their rivalry, moving past anything that trivial.  Somehow, in a flurry of punches and kicks and scratches, they had stripped each other down to their very cores in a way that was almost sexual.  Surely Draco had felt it.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

            Harry had returned to Gryffindor tower bruised and aching, both inside and out.

Ron, who had been whipping Neville at Exploding Snap, had seen his black eyes and the way he was cradling his left arm, holding it against his body as if it were an infant.  Rather than explaining what had happened, however, he had just shuffled into the empty dormitory, and crawled into bed.

            Feeling the heavy weight of his covers on his chest, he had closed his eyes.  Plummeting into deep fantasy, he had pretended the blankets were Draco's body, pressed against his own again.  He sucked in a breath of crisp outdoor air, and remembered jerking off— hand wrapped around himself, moving violently, those eyes in his mind, pretending that he was back in that corridor and that those were Draco's elegant fingers teasing the head of his cock.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

            When he had realized that he was about to come, he had shoved his other fist into his mouth to stop himself from calling out that name.  He bit down on his knuckles, drawing blood that he had sucked desperately, telling himself that it was Draco's and not his own.  The thought had pushed him over the edge.

            Harry blinked, and realized that he had stopped.  The memory had been so vivid that it had impaired his thinking— for a moment there, he had been almost sure that he was back in bed that night.  Never mind.  Hadn't he just scolded himself for not keeping alert?  He looked up at the stars, and they winked at him.  A strange thought flitted through his mind— perhaps it was by their design that his mind had wandered?  Shaking his head, he started walking once more.  He had work to do.

            Tonight, though, did not seem like a time to be working.  A night for revelations, a night for battles lost and won, a night for cities to rise and civilizations to crumble— but not a night for homework.  Yes, he could imagine Rome on a night like this, its denizens warm and safe, sleeping without ever imagining the barbaric hordes that were using the darkness to steal into the city.  Harry turned around; he was almost sure he had heard a whispered echo of the past.  Not a time to be productive, indeed.

            It was all the stars' doing, he decided; it was on their watch that this strange sense was arising.  They provided the forest with a stark glow; they watched like opera patrons as the Greek tragedy of human existence played out below them.  The trees were merely cardboard props, the night that hung at the edges of Harry's vision merely the curtains at the wings of this stage.

            With a shrug, Harry nodded to the sky in acknowledgement.  He resigned himself to this; the star chart just wasn't getting done right away.  Another victory for the forces that be.  He smiled, letting it wash over him— the stars, the snow, the sky.  Maybe he'd do his work later; he didn't want Hermione to chew him out again.  But the important thing now was to appreciate it all.  There would be time enough for work.

            Harry walked on, happy to exist.  The stars were grinning down at him, and he smiled back.  It was still cold and his feet were still wet, but it was okay.  He was heading towards something, and he was content to be led there.  Best now just to enjoy the way.  He saw the shadows of the forest, listened to the night sounds, and felt the wind as it whistled through the trees.  

            There was the clearing.  The trees pulled back suddenly; they fled and left a naked patch of snow-white ground.  There was the bench, as gnarled and old as one of those magical trees the Druids used to worship.  And there, standing before it…. 

            _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

Draco Malfoy.              

*****

(end part five)

Note: I'm sorry this chapter was so late in coming.  Real life stepped in, as my beta would say.  My sincerest apologies if I've kept anyone waiting.  Chapter Six will be up in much less time than Five was, I promise.

                -E.H.


	6. Harry 4— Just Ask Me.

Obsession and Her Trappings

(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)

*****

Chapter Six 

Harry 4— Just Ask Me.

            Draco Malfoy stood in front of the bench with a mini-telescope clasped in his hand, a sentinel with head tilted back to stare up at the heavens.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  The bench had been cleared of snow, and on it lay instead a fresh white sheet of parchment.  It seemed that Harry was not the only one who hadn't done the star chart.

            Harry shrank back, hiding in the undergrowth at the side of the trail.  "This is not a good thing," he told himself, although several parts of him begged to differ.  "Remember who he is; remember that this is Malfoy.  Remember the way he's treated you and your friends; remember that he's practically a Death Eater already."  Still, he could not help the way his eyes were drawn across Draco's frame, taking in his features.  The stark contrast of his black robes against the white snow behind him was especially vivid.

            Draco frowned, oblivious, and twisted the knob of his shiny toy ever so gently.  It was a neat little gadget, made of brass that glinted in the moonlight.  An elongated, cylindrical device, probably slick with pearly drops of condensation from the cold air.  Expensive, too, Harry knew that just by looking at the detailed controls at the base.  

            Pretty boys should definitely not be allowed to carry such things, Harry decided, and found that his hormone-soaked body concurred.  His heartbeat quickened; he found himself licking his lips.  Melted snow trickled onto him from the leafy undergrowth, and the branches clawed at his arms.

            Concentrating on his task, Draco ran his hand up along the shaft of the instrument and slid an ivory finger down its length, deep in thought.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  Harry shivered, adjusted his robes.  He squinted, and a shudder passed through him as Draco bit his lip.  Oh, this wasn't fair, not at all.  Who invited something straight from one of his most depraved wet dreams out tonight?

            It seemed as though his telescope wasn't performing as well as Draco would have wanted it to.  For all his fiddling, fretting, and manipulating, Harry saw— through glasses that were fogging over rapidly— that he was not seeing stars.  Yet each attempt that he made, each time he thrust the tool heavenward, sent an electric jolt through the aroused body of his observer.  

            Finally, he managed to get the thing working.  Harry could see the tremor that ran through Draco's entire frame as his vision shot through that long shaft and into the heavens.  He gave a little cry of victory and before Harry could stop himself, he had echoed it with a throaty, aching moan of his own.

            Draco heard; Draco looked up.  Harry's gut dropped like a toddler down a well.  

*****

            "Hello?"  Those grey eyes — a storm at sea — scanned the woods, passing over the thicket in which Harry was hiding.  Heart raging, he pushed himself deeper into the brush.  The sweaty warmth of his haven comforted him.  Please let Draco go away, please let him leave, please….

            "Is anyone there?" 

            An owl responded; Harry did not.  Please let him go away, his thoughts whispered fiercely.  Perhaps this was supposed to happen tonight, but all he wanted right now was to turn his back on 'supposed to.'  He wanted that bench to be empty; he wanted not to have to draw this chart; he wanted everything to be normal again.

With one last sweeping glance, Draco turned away.  He snapped the telescope shut, and slipped it into the folds of his robe.  With purposeful strides made only slightly less efficient by the billowing piles of snow, he walked to the bench.  He picked up the quill, and scribbled something on the parchment.  Harry watched fine lines appear on his forehead, saw the feather weave and bob in swooping circles as Draco drew the stars.  At least someone was getting his work done tonight.

            Harry knew that he needed to get out into that clearing.  This had been too much of a hassle for him to give up now.  And hopefully, Draco would be almost finished, so that he'd leave quickly.  Yes, that was what would happen.  If Harry went into the clearing, Draco would leave, and he could get his work done.  No strangely sexual fighting, no phallic observations.  He would pick up his things and go, and Harry would be able to draw the silly chart.

            Dispelling the last of his misgivings, Harry wriggled out of his damp hiding place.  His eyes on Draco, he stood, and took steps toward the grove.  The snow crunched beneath his feet, and a sound had never been more deafening.

            Draco glanced up, and his gaze fixed on Harry.  "Potter?"  His eyes became narrow slices of slate.  "What the fuck are you doing here?"  

            Harry blinked; his fantasies must have slipped stealthily into the forefront of his mind for a moment.  They had almost caused him to expect a different, warmer greeting— an embrace, even.  Foolish.  "Screw you, Malfoy.  I've got as much right to be here as you do."  After a moment of reflection on their last intense meeting, he added, "It's not like we're in a corridor on your turf or something."

            Draco's pale features formed a smile, but it was no more than the ghost of one.  "Perhaps, but it's after dark, and not even you, the great Harry Potter, are allowed to be prowling about at this hour.  In fact, I'd say that Professor McGonagall would be highly displeased to know that Gryffindor's shining star and champion Seeker was gallivanting about on the outskirts of the Forest at night."

            Harry snarled.  He wasn't supposed to get caught; tonight didn't seem willing to let him fall into trouble.  Then again, Draco wasn't supposed to be here, either.  It couldn't happen.  It just couldn't.  He glared at Draco…

            Wait a sodding second.  "Shut up!  If you run off and tattle like the stupid nancy boy prat that you are, she'll know that you were out of bed, too."  That smile widened, and he realized that Draco had been bluffing.  "Fuck-wit," Harry added, though his heart truly wasn't in the epitaph.

            In fact, this entire exchanged seemed to be lacking in intensity.  In better, simpler times, their words would have been harsh and biting, attacks and counterattacks as scathing as any physical battling.  Now, they were tossed up lazily, like clay pigeons lofted into the air to be shot by rifles.  Usually, there would be spite in their voices, and malice dancing like a black flame in the whites of their eyes.  But not tonight.

            Tonight, there was none of that.  Though he had tried to be angry, summoning the last reserves of his hatred, Harry found that it just wasn't enough.  This night wouldn't tolerate any exchange of hostilities.  One didn't shout in a cathedral, or stomp and scream in an art gallery, after all.

            "Forget to do your star chart, too?"  So Draco felt the change as well.  His tone could almost be considered civil.  Harry wasn't alone in this altered state, then, which was a good thing.  He'd not have relished this serenity in the face of a murderous Malfoy.

            Harry nodded.  They stood in silence for a moment, unsure of what to do in this new existence.  How were they to fill this empty time, if not by beating each other senseless?  That had always seemed to be the only option, at least where the two of them were concerned.  But now what?

            Harry took a step back, felt something brush up against the back of his knee.  The bench.  He sank down in it, thankful for something to support him.  "So how did you find this spot, anyway?" he asked, the ancient wood soothing his jangled self.

            Draco turned and looked at him, his brow slightly furrowed in bemusement.  Harry blushed, wanting to turn away but not entirely able to.  In fact, what he wanted to do was to kiss and caress those fine wrinkles away.  He imagined his lips sliding over that smooth skin, brushing away the slightest wisps of perspiration that dusted Draco's forehead.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  Of course, though, such thoughts soon passed— almost.  They remained at the edges of his conscious, perched like owls or ivory hawks.

            Draco too sat down.  "What— do you think you're the only one who goes out wandering when he should be tucked in bed like a good little boy?"  Another smile.  "Think again."

            Harry shrugged, trying not to let the grin spread to him.  "Not that I care, anyway.  You and the rest of the Death Eater Cub Scout troop can prowl the premises whenever you want.  Preferably within Mrs. Norris' range, but then I again I also hear that it's lovely under the Whomping Willow at night.  The perfect place for all of your dark deeds, right below those beautiful branches.  I bet you could even build a clubhouse there."

            "Go to hell, Potter."

            "With you right at my heels, Malfoy."  What was this strange camaraderie; where had it come from?  Some other time, Harry decided that he was going to figure out what had transpired, what had changed the tension to comfort.  

            All he could say for certain tonight was that they were looking at the same skies, trying impossibly to count and map the same endless stars.  Perhaps that was enough of a base right now.  They sat, past enemies, present acquaintances, and future mysteries, all leaning against the same primeval planks, shifting their robes in the cold.  Those parts they had played, or were playing, or were yet to play, staring up into the heavens and trying very hard to be subtle a bout staring at one another every so often.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._

_*****_

            It was a few minutes before either of them spoke again.  "Imagine, believing that those stars could tell your fortune."  Draco's laugh was high and tinny.  "Ridiculous."

            Harry shrugged.  "I don't know about that.  But if believing in the stars could make a person feel less alone, I wouldn't want to begrudge anyone of that."

            "Always a Gryffindor," and though that comment could have made Harry bristle, he let it pass.  Draco's tone wasn't mean, really, just contemplative.  "Does that mean you believe in fortunes, Potter?"

            _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  "I-don't-know."  Harry hoped he sounded at least half-convincing.  Did Draco know about those fortune cookies, then?  Was that was this was— a plot to humiliate him?  He didn't want to believe that; this night wasn't meant for treachery.  It didn't belong here, on this stage.  "No.  Well, yes.  Maybe?"

            Another laugh, but this one sounded genuine.  It fit; it was harmonious where the other one had been jarring.  "I have to admit, I'm not sure about it myself."

            "Really?"  Harry was relieved; the whirring disks of anxiety that had been slicing through him rested in his blood and disintegrated.  It had been a coincidence that Draco had mentioned fortune cookies; it must have been.  After all, they were both sitting out in the snow— freezing their arses off, he had to add— because of stupid Astrology.  It had been an uncanny moment when the thoughts running through his mind were mirrored by the actions of others around him, but that was all it had been.

            "Yeah," Draco said.  "The idea of fate is comforting, and I think that there is something to be said for not feeling alone.  But at the same time, I think it's incredibly simple-minded.  Having everything planned takes all the life out of living."  He shrugged; the gesture seemed alien on him.  "I don't know what I'm saying, really.  It's just always seemed to me that, well— if everything in a man's life is set in the stars, then how can he ever change them?"

            "How would you change your stars if you could?"  Harry hadn't really wanted to ask that question, hadn't wanted to ask anything at all.  He would have much rather sat here like this, the two of them filling the night air with whatever fluffs of fancy flitted across their minds.  The words had been so insistent for him, too determined to come up out of his throat.  Like another set of words so prominent in his mind.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  In the end, he had to speak, and then they had spilled out like a captured insect wriggling out of his clasped hands.

            "What do you mean, Potter?"  Draco was closed off, his features slamming shut like a door.  Damn it!  Everything had gone wrong.

            "I mean," he said, trying to fix his mistake, "is there anything you really want?  Desperately, hungrily, with every fiber of yourself?  Something you want like tomorrow, like air in a crowded room, like flowers in the snow?"  He sat back, tried to calm himself down from the verbal crescendo he had just hit.  Deep breaths— Draco's not going to answer the way you want him to.  Inhale— he won't.  Exhale— your secrets are not his.  Repeat— this night means nothing.

            Draco turned to him, and Harry had to remind himself again to breathe; there was a curious expression on Draco's face that was making it difficult.  Something soft and sharp, something ephemeral and eternal.  

            "Of course I want things," he said.  He appeared almost shocked that Harry would even doubt it.  "Of course I do," and his eyes were soft and wonderful.

            "Oh," stammered Harry, wondering when those eyes had changed.  "Oh," not knowing what to say at all; was there anything to say?  Perhaps, but there was no way that Harry could bring himself to say it.  Not while he was barely breathing; not while the stars were watching but not telling any of their secrets, of his and Draco's secrets.

            Then as if by magic, Draco had said it precisely.  

            "Ask for what you want, even..."  Draco's voice was barely audible, more of an exhaled breath than a whisper.  He trailed off, leaving the last part of the sentence stillborn.  It didn't matter, though; Harry knew the words enough to hear them spill from Draco's lips, unsaid but very real.  Yes, he knew those well.  As, apparently, did Draco.

            There was a very real part of Harry that wanted to be shocked; he could feel his fingers tingling, ready to panic and whirl out of control.  That was Harry's sentence; those words were his, marked by shameful sobs and stained sheets.  There was no way that Draco could even begin to comprehend their twisted meaning, to guess at the purple, swollen desires they denoted.  He couldn't; he just couldn't, screamed that part of him.  Run away now, before he finds out.  Run from this night, from this strange companionship, run from those crimson lips forming that fateful sentence.

            He knew that he couldn't, though.  Instead of those frantic, frenetic emotions, for the most part, Harry felt a little light-headed.  Perhaps this is what it was like to be drunk on the milk of the stars, if such a thing existed.  Draco knowing that sentence— although it was so much more than the formation of thirteen words— was okay, tonight.  In fact, it was probably more that okay, but Harry knew that neither of them were ready for that yet.

            "What did you say?" he asked, with a glance out of the corner of his eye.

            "Nothing."  Draco puffed up, his shoulders held back and his head held high.  "Nothing at all," he said, but his voice was hollow.  He looked ridiculous, like a little boy trying to emulate his father (and from what Harry knew about the Malfoy family, maybe that wasn't so far from the truth).  

            That stance told Harry all he needed to know; the fact that Draco's hand was gripping the arm of the bench so tightly that the blood had drained from his fingers was only reinforcement.  No need to press the issue any further.

            They were silent once more.  Harry realized that they were both waiting for something, a celestial clue as to their path.  Eyes scouring, ears wide open, each searching for something to give them direction.  Like musicians listening for the first strains of applause, they waited, lives caught in the balance.  He could hear Draco's breath, could see the puffs of crystal vapor that accompanied every exhale.

            Harry hoped that their sign would be a shooting star.  He had only seen one once; it had happened while he was walking back to the castle from having a cup of tea with Hagrid.  It had frightened him, that speck of light shooting across the sky.  He had thought that it screamed as it plummeted, aware that it would die shattered into a million fragments on the ground.  Harry knew that the stars weren't really alive, but it had looked so terribly sad.  Maybe Draco would catch this next one for him.

            The longer they waited, though, breathless and hopeful, the quieter the night became.  As if everyone and everything was waiting for a sign, too.  All of humanity, eyes fixed on the heavens, searching for that moment of clarity, that flash of direction.  If everyone was waiting, maybe that meant that they were what it all hinged upon.  Perhaps, just perhaps, he and Draco were the shooting star.

            "Ask me," Harry said, with a calmness that seemed strange.  It shouldn't be here, but it was.  Somehow, everything seemed okay, now; this was all supposed to happen.  "Ask me what you want, Draco."

            "Sod off, Potter."  His voice was strained, Harry noted from somewhere outside himself.  Draco was frightened of this.  Didn't he see that it was fine, that everything was falling into place?  He was sure it was something wonderful.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  How sad that Draco couldn't see it, too.  

            "It's okay; don't be scared.  It's all happening."

            Draco lifted a finely sculpted eyebrow.  "What the fuck is all this mystic rubbish, Potter?  Have you gone new age batty on us?"

            Harry laughed.  "Just ask me."  He scooted closer on the bench.  Their knees brush against each other, the cloth of their robes kissing.

            "You're insane."

            "Do it."  Harry changed tactics, laid a soft had on top of Draco's.  "I'll say yes."  

            Draco's hand trembled, but he did not pull away.  Instead, he turned his face to Harry's, eyes starry and luminous.  Harry met their gaze.  He wanted to be pulled into those constellations, wrapped in the cloth of the night and spinning in those irises.  He closed his own eyes, knowing what was supposed to happen now.  The knight in shining armor and the beauteous damsel kiss behind the magic castle.  He didn't know which one each of them was, but that was alright, too.  One had to make allowances when dealing with fairy tales.

            Their lips met, Harry's heart careening like a bird flapping its wings against the walls of its cage.  A soft kiss, strange considering whom it was between.  They should have crashed, mouths meeting and fighting like everything else about them; it should have been like fire and ice.  Instead, this timid brush, this gentlest of encounters.  

            Draco's mouth opened slightly, and Harry was afraid that it would be to protest, to pull away.  But then his tongue slipped into Harry's mouth, running over his teeth, dancing along the roof of his mouth.  He leaned in closer; Harry felt a warm hand cupping the back of his head.  He liked it, felt wanted and close.  This slippery thing, this kissing, this bantering of tongues— Harry liked that, too.

            He felt Draco's lower lip against his own, pulled back to suck on it a little, just to see what it was like.  The move was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath, and now Draco's other arm had snaked around his waist to pull him closer.  Their bodies touched, and he wondered if he could melt into him, somehow slide through his skin and live in that pulsing hot core that seemed to exist just below the surface.  They switched to pure kissing again; Harry slid his hands to Draco's face, fingers mapping the smooth surface, trying to memorize the soft sensations of his skin.  

            Time passed this way (though whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours, he couldn't tell), floating by in this intimate conversation of sorts.  Their hands wandered, raking through hair or sliding across backs.  Harry decided to try that bit with the lower lip again, this time teething the morsel of flesh a little, and that little moan that Draco gave in reply had to be one of the most wonderful sounds that he had ever heard.  It sent sparks through him, rocketing down his spine.  

            He turned, sliding closer on the bench so that they were touching, and found out that Draco was as aroused as he was.  Their cocks grazed, and this time Harry made a small noise that he would never had expected he was capable of.  So needy, so completely desperate for something more.

            A harsh metallic clang jolted them apart.  Both jumped back, and Harry shivered in the newly cold air.  He looked about, and then realized that it had only been Draco's mini telescope clattering to the ground.  He sighed, and slid back closer to him.  They could get back to what they had been in the middle of.

            But then his eyes caught Draco's, and he stopped.  They looked at one another, both shocked and eager.  There were still traces of horror, though, remnants of their past that tonight was determined to destroy once and for all.  Too much confusion for them to resume the silence, as enjoyable as it had been.  This would have to be talked about.  A line had just been crossed; there was no turning back.  What had they just done?

*****

(end part six)

Note: Between ff.net's little spasm, a trip to a conference in Washington DC, and just general hang-ups, this story took longer than expected.  My apologies

                -E.H.


	7. Draco 3— A Bit of Wicked at the Edges

Obsession and Her Trappings

(Pairing, summary, and ratings can be found in chapter one.)

*****

Chapter Seven 

Draco 3— A Bit of Wicked at the Edges.

            Draco Malfoy spoke the first words, and he felt awful for even uttering them.  They clanged and they clashed, so very out of place here.  Though there had to have been a better way of putting forth the question (any question at all, really), he hadn't been able to find it.  He said this, instead, "What was that?" 

            Harry turned his head.  "I think we—"

            "I know what we just did.  I was asking what it _was_."

            Although Draco himself didn't exactly know what he meant by that, Harry seemed to understand.  Harry rested a hand on his palm, his chin jutting out slightly, and blew out a puffing breath that became a million tiny crystals when it met the air.  "I don't know," he said.  "Do you?"

            Words came to his mind, trundled out from a part of him that had been trained to act with such efficiency that he marveled at his own brainwashing.  'Well, _Potter_, if I had known what in blazes this all meant, there is no way I would have asked for your opinion.'  A tight, erudite sentence, cold as a steel blade and sharp as a quick slash through an artery— a Malfoy sentence.  He felt the stars frowning at him, and shoved the comment aside.  Not now, he told those cankerous, cantankerous parts of him, parts of him that were spoiling for a good fight.  "No idea," he said and though it wasn't eloquent, it wasn't cutting either.  It would do._  Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._   

            "Well?"

            Draco was supposed to say something.  Harry's eyes were upon him, the eyes of a cynic waiting to be shocked.  _Tell me something I don't know,_ they said.  His eyes were green, and of course Draco had been aware that before, but tonight it seemed especially important.  Like absinthe, like bottles carrying messages, like so many other clichés he would not allow himself to mention.  He had nothing to say; nothing had ever prepared him for those eyes.  

            That hesitation was enough to allow a Malfoy remark to slip through.  "I'm not supposed to be here, you know," he found himself offering.  His words were quiet, but not timid; rather, they were dripping with elitism. The best kind of dirty aristocratic secret, one that was determined not to be kept.  Draco felt like clapping a hand to his mouth in the grotesque imitation of shock, but he knew it would be a false gesture.  Some part of him had wanted to say that; somewhere within him a beast had stirred.  Now he would have to ride out the ripples it had caused in this glassy night, and hope that he could withstand the stars' anger at his slip.  

            Harry's eyes flashed at that.  Defiant; that hadn't changed.  "No?"

            "Of course not."  Draco forced the words through, though they felt almost sickening.  He was retreating to his mask, then, slinking back to his cave of Slytherin darkness to handle this.  How pathetic.  He met Harry's gaze, drawing up centuries of family pride.  Otherwise, he didn't think that he could have looked Harry in the face.    
  


            With a perception he hadn't had before tonight, Draco read the boy seated next to him.  Harry's lips were slightly parted, and his tongue flitted out to lick his lower lip— perhaps to find some vestiges of Draco?  His fingers were flying, moving to clasp or unclasp his cloak, to draw swirls and circles in the snow on the arm of the bench.  His face, however, was taut; his jaw was tight and Draco knew that Harry was also fighting a protracted battle with bitter urges.  He wondered if that was what he looked like.  "There are other, more important things I should probably be doing right now."  

            "Like what?"

            "Oh, the usual."  Draco waved a lily-white hand, dipping deep into the Malfoy heritage, hoping that the plunge would not kill him.  "Tormenting the good, undermining the work of the valiant, tempting the doubting."  

            "Corrupting the innocent?"  

            Draco looked over at Harry, startled.  It took him a moment to recognize what he saw.  The battle had been fought, and someone had won.  He wondered who it had been, and the moment he saw the languid lines of that pose, he knew.  Harry Potter, sitting back on a bench behind the castle— lounging, actually.  Hair mussed and robes wrinkled, fairly humming with energy tonight.  Glowing.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

            "Yeah," Draco said, the tide of his own fight turning at Harry's voice. "Something like that."  

            Harry raised a hand.  Funny how this boy, this strange, wonderful boy, had so much power over Draco.  How perfectly incredible, that the ebb and flow of his person was so controlled by him, the moon shifting the tides.  Draco hadn't even always been aware of it, either, that silver thread that Harry had tied to him long ago.  It was invisible, but there nonetheless.  Draco leaned close, having been beckoned.  

            "Because I think you're doing a pretty good job on the corruption front, at least."  Harry's eyes were so wide that he almost appeared frightened.  He was so young; Draco was months older, and those months were suddenly so heavy, so important.  What a young boy he was, with eyes like those proud pine forests just below the timberline and hair like the night enveloping a tiny town.  Incredible.

            He had the urge to protect Harry, which was strange— there had never been any protection in him before.  The Malfoys had been Darwinists before muggles had come up with a name for it; those who were not suited for survival should not be allowed to do so.  _His lineage demanded perfection!_ cried the hollow voices of those defeated elements.  Draco Malfoy had never been given protection, and it seemed strange to think of providing it now, to someone who had never really needed it from anyone.  There it was, though; he could do nothing to change it.

            Harry smiled, and Draco felt a laugh rushing out of him, dancing over his tongue and into this moment.  He closed his eyes and ears to his family, to the icy blue blood that was slowly corroding his veins.  Perhaps they would be back tomorrow, clawing at his conscious as ever.  He doubted it; he felt like he could silence a thousand dark voices if only Harry would continue to look at him in the way he had done tonight.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

            "Were you really all that innocent before?"  A silly question.

            "I'm not sure," Harry replied in a whisper.  "I can't tell what I was before tonight."  

            "Do you feel that I've thoroughly debauched you, then?" 

            "No."  Another smile, but... different.  This one came with a bit of wicked at the edges, a spattering of mischief.  "Not yet."

            Draco had to kiss him, then, had to lightly press his own lips to those ruby ones.  Feel them, see if they were really there, if any of this had happened.  Touch the surface of the lake to see if this image would blur and disappear, leaving a lonely boy alone in the snow.  And if it didn't....

            Harry was still there, and Draco wished he knew whom to thank for that.  Moments like this could not be coincidental; everything worth remembering was premeditated.  He had learned that early, learned to spot the whispered plans at work, to expect elaborate plots and abstruse schemes.  And if anyone were responsible for this all, it was the stars, which now were watching with munificent affection.  Of course they had had a hand in it; for all he knew, the star charts that they were now ignoring could have been blueprints for the entire scheme.  But where did that sentence fit in; how had Harry known?  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

            "Draco?"  That voice wasn't right at all.  It was tremulous, speaking of doubt just as Draco had managed to set aside his.  What was it?  The other shoe, balanced precipitously, ready to fall and smash their night?  He should have seen it coming, then.  

            He held out hope like a child holding birdseed in a cupped hand.  "Yes, Harry?"

            "Maybe you could try to corrupt me again?  It might work better the next time around, seeing as I'm already partially debauched."  This was not the 

renunciation Draco was expecting, the disgust finally breaching the last wall and crashing everything.  Instead, he heard a question, an answer, his very salvation.  

            Draco gave another kiss, this time to Harry's temple.  He held his lips there, and felt Harry's pulse, fluttering like his eyelashes.  This was a life he felt beneath him, the beating of a real person, beautiful in its very existence.  The voices had been seductive, swathed in night and that thrill of darkness, but they had lied; they had never told him about this.  The little sounds a person made if you sat close beside them and listened, the quiet stirrings of a real soul beneath your lips— he had never heard about any of this before.

            And yet, how easy it would be to hurt this boy, who for so long Draco had heard was unassailable!  If Draco's kisses were a little more biting, his hands that groped turned into hands that pummeled, his wand retrieved from a pocket in his robes— how incredibly simple a procedure.  To not stop when the line between agony and ecstasy was crossed, to continue touching and probing until this fragile being that sat beside him was raped of all his secrets.  Draco wondered how much of a fight he'd put up….

            He gasped, and the darkness pulled back.  Such terrible paths he had just been wandering!  Would he never be saved from this undertow?  Fuck this shit, he thought; I refuse to let whatever crap my father and his friends have been stuffing into me dictate who I am.  _Ask for what you want, even if you know you can't have it._  

            And who Draco (just Draco for the moment) was right now seemed to be dictated by Harry Potter, who now looked at him, confused as to what had made Draco start so.

            Draco pushed it away, shifted a bit to whisper in Harry's ear.  "You can count on that."

            And he knew that the stars, at least, would approve. 

*****

(end part seven)

Note:  Thanks to everyone reading this so far.  I'm so glad you've tuned in again.  And if you like what you read, tell your friends!   
                -EH


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